|
| This treasure then, in grosse, my Soule uplay, |
| And in my life retaile it every day. |
|
| Goodfriday,1613. riding Westward. |
|
| Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this, |
| The intelligence that moves, devotion is, |
| And as the other Spheares, by being growne |
| Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne, |
| And being by others hurried every day, |
| Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey: |
| Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit |
| For their first mover, and are whirld by it. |
| Hence is't, that I am carried towards the West, |
| This day, when my Soules forme bends to th'East. |
| There I should see a Sunne by rising set, |
| And by that setting endlesse day beget. |
| But that Christ on his Crosse, did rise and fall, |
| Sinne had eternally benighted all. |
| Yet dare I'almost be glad, I doe not see |
| That spectacle of too much weight for mee. |
| Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must die; |
| What a death were it then to see God die? |
| It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke, |
| It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke. |
| Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, |
| And tune al sphears at once, peirc'd with those holes? |
| Could I behold that endlesse height which is |
| Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, |
| Humbled below us? or that blood which is |
| The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
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[CW: Made] |